


Stupid

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, cactus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek go to spring training in Arizona, because <em>baseball</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid

It’s hot, so fucking hot. 

Stiles was the one who booked the tickets. If it had been Derek, he would probably have gotten them seats in the shade, right behind home plate, where the misters are. But trust Stiles to get the cheapest option, nosebleed seats on metal bleachers. They’re fucking broiling. 

“Bullshit,” Stiles is bellowing at the field. They’re the only people in their section not wearing orange. “This is _fucking bullshit_.” 

No one in the section likes them, Derek can tell. For one, he can hear them all bitching to each other under their breath, the names they’re calling Stiles. For another, he doesn’t blame them; Stiles is being obnoxious. This isn’t even a real game. Stiles knows that; that’s why he’s doing it. He thinks it’s funny. 

"I’m _boycotting_ you bitches this season,” Stiles yells at the players. Several people in the section below and in front turn to look at him. He doesn’t seem to care; he throws back half his beer in one go, pink arms and pink knees. Pink ears and neck and cheeks. Derek fucking adores him. 

"Excuse me. Can you _not_?” a woman asks. 

“ _He_ can,” Stiles replies, gesturing at Derek with his whole head. 

“ _What_?”

Derek licks cotton candy off his fingers.

In the last inning, Stiles’ team turns it all around out of nowhere, a runaway victory that has Stiles standing on his seat hollering like a psycho. When he slips and crashes into Derek’s lap, Derek holds him: the satisfaction’s good enough to taste. 

Besides, Stiles has lost the privilege of sitting on his own ass like an adult. 

:: 

Back at the hotel, Derek grips the headboard and gives it to him so hard he can’t form words. He can hardly keep conscious, he’s taking it so good. Derek feels a little like fainting, himself. 

It’s dark and cool in here with the blinds pulled. Just outside, some people are hooting and playing in the pool, but Derek’s seeking his own relief in Stiles’ sunburnt, dewy, warm skin. He’s soupy from the beer but solid under Derek’s hands, thumbs pressing into his milky thighs, where he's usually got at least one hickey. He bites Stiles’ neck, tastes the sweat there, healthy and fresh. Stiles’ fingernails dig into his back, and, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, a passionate emphasis on the swear like he’s shocked or frightened or impressed. 

Derek likes him like that. Everything all at once, so if you asked him how he was feeling, he wouldn’t have an answer. Just this.  

:: 

As she passes, the waitress leans in and lights the candle in the center of the table. Bustles away as quickly as she appeared. Leaving them both aglow with flickering light. “God,” Stiles sighs happily, melting across the table at Derek. “Could this _get_ any more romantic?” 

Derek looks at him like he’s being impish. “You’re already drunk, aren’t you?” 

"No. That’s specious,” Stiles replies, taking a pointed gulp of his wine, “and, and ih—it won’t stand up.” 

“In—” 

“In court.” 

“Right.” Derek points at him with a butter knife. “You’re stupid.” 

“Mmmm.” Stiles reaches out, scritches at Derek’s beard. He winces infinitesimally as he shifts in his seat, and Derek feels an intense satisfaction knowing why. “Almost as stupid as you.” Derek catches his hand, holds it on the table. His fingers brush at Stiles’ wrist. It’s warm and still here in the desert, so hot in mid-March that it’s like a July back home. Stiles looks like he can hardly contain the boundless elation that’s welling up in his gut; Derek can relate. “Hey,” he says. 

Derek traces Stiles’ palm like he’s reading it. “What.” 

“Now would be a good time,” says Stiles. “You know? We’ve _gone away together_. Everyone’s expecting it.” 

“‘Cause that’s why we do anything,” Derek drawls. “Because it’s expected.” 

Stiles doesn’t reply, just watches him. 

There’s no question. There’s nothing else, no one else, for either of them. 

They’ve both known that for a long time now. It’s just an empirical truth they’ve come to accept, like _death is around the corner_ and _Scott will protect us_. You learn things like that, learn who’s a constant and who isn’t, when your life is in danger. It’s a certainty you can’t gain without strife. 

This particular decision would serve no additional purpose except to wrap it all up. Add a bow. Make it presentable to the public. Derek sighs. 

"All right,” he says, dotingly. “Do it.” 

A cautious smile pokes its way into the corners of Stiles’ mouth. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Just fucking _do_ it, Stiles, my _god_.” 

“Well, _now_ I don’t _want_ to.” But giddily, Stiles snatches up his phone. Opens up Facebook. Sets his relationship status as _engaged_. 

:: 

"You’re getting one, too,” Stiles tells him, “I’m not your rambunctious nephew, okay? You don’t just buy me snacks to shut me up. You get snacks _with_ me. It’s a _group activity_.” so Derek does: he also buys himself an organic ice cream cone. 

They sit in the manicured grass in front of the hotel, where people don’t really hang out. They sit by the largest cactus Derek’s ever seen and slowly eat their ice cream, free hands stickily intertwined between them.  The stars glint unselfconsciously at them. The moon is a hair-width sliver. 

Somewhere behind them, Derek hears someone hiss disparagingly, “Look, it’s that loud asshole from the game! He ruined the _whole_ —No, Dale, don’t. I don’t trust that guy he’s with.” He smirks, doesn’t tell Stiles. 

Stiles places the tiny sombrero he bought as a souvenir on Derek’s head. “You’re beautiful,” he tells him with a very Judy Garland delivery. “I’d vote you Miss America right now. Chocolate all over you. It’s good.” 

"You’re stupid,” Derek reminds him, and he smiles. 

 


End file.
